Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Teaser chapter
JUDGE, JURY, AND EXECUTIONER
Carefully watching Monk’s eyes, Jason followed him over to the end of the counter, his hand resting lightly on the handle of the .44 riding on his hip. “So if I was to take a look in that stable out back, you’re sayin’ I wouldn’t find Slate Hatcher’s horse in there,” Jason said. “Is that right?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” Monk snarled, with a slight shift of his eyes toward the back door.
It was warning enough for Jason. He dived behind the counter, shoving Monk to the floor in the process, as a bullet ripped a chunk out of the countertop. In less than a second his pistol was in his hand and he popped up to empty it at the back door, chewing up the doorframe and the cracked door, sending splinters flying. There was no return fire, and a moment later Jason heard footsteps retreating across the porch.
Holstering his empty pistol, Jason cocked his rifle and rushed to pursue. Outside, Slate paused in the yard to fire another shot at Jason as he came out the door. The shot was wild and thudded into the doorframe. Jason dropped to one knee and fired. His shot was on the mark, dropping the fugitive to the ground. . . .
SIGNET
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Copyright © Charles G. West, 2010
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For Ronda
Chapter 1
Lucinda Tate paused when something caught her eye as she was leaning over the edge of the well. She straightened and casually brushed a strand of gray hair from her forehead, gazing toward the dusty lane that led from the road to the house. She could not control the feeling of despair that swept over her entire soul, although she was not really surprised by what she saw. It was a moment she had dreaded since Billy was first in his teen years, a moment that was destined to come to pass. “Pa,” she called to her husband, who was on the back porch, “Billy’s home.” Her voice was calm, without emotion. She pulled the bucketful of water up and left it on the side of the well. Unconsciously drying her hands on her apron, she walked out to meet the rider.
John Tate put aside the harness he was mending, got to his feet, and walked slowly through the house to the front porch. Like his wife, he paused when he saw the rider on the buckskin horse making his way up the lane. The formidable figure in the saddle was easy to recognize and one that John had expected, although with heartfelt dread. The horse the deputy marshal was leading was also easy to recognize. It was Billy’s sorrel, and the body draped across the saddle was testament to his son’s destined homecoming. He descended the steps to join his wife in the yard. She took hold of his arm for support, although there were no tears yet. This day had been promised for too long.
It was a sorrowful task for Jason Storm, but one he felt obligated to perform. The Tates were good people, but like a lot of good folks, were burdened with the prodigal son. Ordinarily the family of a deceased outlaw was left to claim the body at the undertaker’s, but because of the empathy he felt for the boy’s parents, Jason spared them the humiliation of carting their son’s corpse through town.
“Mr. Tate,” Jason said in acknowledgment as he pulled up before the couple. “Ma’am,” he said, nodding in Lucinda’s direction. “I brought Billy’s body home. He didn’t give me no choice when I tried to arrest him. I’m sorry.” When Tate stepped up to take the reins from Jason’s hand, the deputy said, “I can help you carry him.”
“I can take care of him,” John snapped, then quickly added, “I ain’t got no hard feelin’s agin you, Mr. Storm. You’re a fair man. I know Billy didn’t give you no choice. When he left here after killin’ that man in the bank, he swore that if you found him, one of you was gonna be dead. It ain’t your fault.” His speech was slow and painful, as if the words themselves were caught in his throat.
“Yessir,” Jason replied and stepped up in the saddle, “but I’m sorry it had to happen.” He pulled the buckskin’s head around as Billy’s mother turned away to hide the tears she could no longer hold back.
Holding his horse to an easy lope, he rode back down the lane, leaving the grieving parents to take care of their dead son. He was not concerned with the thought of an angry father taking a shot at his broad back as he rode away. He trusted John Tate when the man said he held him blameless. It was just a damn shame that good people were cursed with bad seeds like Billy Tate. It was all so senseless—another young hothead, liquored up and thinking his pistol was the answer to anything that displeased him. I’m tired of it, he thought. After twenty-five years of bringing bodies back, I’m damn sick and tired of it. He decided at that moment that it was time to quit. This particular job wasn’t finished, however, and Jason Storm
never quit a job until it was finished. Slate Hatcher was still on the loose. Jason would not rest until he brought Slate in, whether sitting up in the saddle or lying across it. He really didn’t care which. Unlike Billy Tate, Slate Hatcher was born with a mean streak, and the territory would be a whole lot better off without him.
After the bank holdup, Slate and Billy had split up and headed in different directions. Jason had decided to go after Billy first, figuring he would be easier to track, as he was probably heading home before making a run for it. Young and full of himself, it had been an unfortunate day when Billy hooked up with the likes of Slate Hatcher, a notorious troublemaker who had crossed paths with Jason before. I should have locked up that hell-raiser instead of running him out of town, Jason thought as he guided his horse through a narrow canyon toward the mountains beyond. He admonished himself for thinking Slate would not be back to cause trouble. He was the youngest of four outlaw brothers, three of whom had held up a bank in Laramie. Deputy Marshal Tom Roland had been the lawman who lost their trail at the Sweetwater River near South Pass. Nothing more was seen of the three in Wyoming Territory, but Slate showed up from time to time to get drunk and raise hell locally. Jason felt a sense of guilt for not having locked him up and, consequently, for the deaths of Herman and Cassie Chambers.
According to witnesses, when Slate and Billy held up the bank, Cassie happened to be there, bringing her husband his dinner pail. Herman was a teller at the bank, and he always ate his dinner there. Cassie was not a timid woman, and when the guns were drawn, Cassie’s reaction was to assault Slate Hatcher verbally, causing him to shoot her in the stomach. Herman, stunned to see his wife gunned down, responded by pulling a shotgun from under the counter. Billy shot him before he could use it.
As Jason had figured, Billy had not been hard to find. Jason had trailed him to his folks’ place, but Billy’s horse had not been there, so Jason hadn’t seen any use in questioning John and Lucinda Tate on the whereabouts of their son. It was not likely they would have told him even if they had known. It didn’t matter, anyway, for he’d picked up a fresh trail heading south from the homestead and didn’t have to follow it long to know where it led. He had accosted Billy at his girlfriend’s house, where the fatal confrontation had taken place. He had given Billy a chance, but the hotheaded kid chose to charge out of the house with guns blazing. Expecting as much, Jason had dropped him with one calmly aimed shot from his rifle.
Now his concern was to run Slate Hatcher to ground.
Monk Searcy looked through the open door of his trading post, watching the rider approaching on a buckskin horse. He knew the deputy marshal and he was not particularly happy to see him. Whenever Jason Storm showed up back in these hills, it usually meant a streak of bad luck for somebody, and that somebody was more often than not one of Monk’s customers. Consequently, Jason was met with a scowl when he looped his horse’s reins around a post and walked into the store.
“Hello, Monk,” Jason said as he glanced around the room to see whether the proprietor was alone. The thick air in the store was heavy with the smell of rancid meat, tobacco smoke, and dirty bodies trapped in the small space with only one open door and no cross breeze. “How’s business?” Jason asked. He was well aware that Monk’s business was double-dealing Indians, selling rotgut whiskey, buying stolen goods, and providing a favorite place for outlaws to hole up. Jason had little concern for Monk’s business ethics or his clientele. He figured as long as they caused ordinary folks no harm, he didn’t care what they did to one another. Monk understood this indifference, but he still didn’t care for the deputy marshal’s presence in what he considered his territory.
Monk responded to his question by aiming a stream of tobacco juice at a spittoon near the counter. It missed by a good six inches and joined a pattern of countless other stains surrounding the spittoon. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “Well, it don’t help it any when you show up. What are you sniffing around up here now for? There ain’t nobody been here for a spell, least nobody you’d be interested in.”
“I’m lookin’ for Slate Hatcher,” Jason said, “and I figure he rode through this little pigsty of yours a day or two ago lookin’ for a place to hole up.”
“Well, he ain’t here. I ain’t seen him in a month or more.”
Jason smiled patiently. “Now, Monk, why do you wanna lie to me like that? I’ve been following his trail all day. He’s got a nicked shoe on his horse’s front left hoof, leaves a trail plain as day, and it led right up to your front door. You still say you ain’t seen him?” The nicked horseshoe was just something Jason made up, but Monk swallowed it. The expression on his face confirmed it. He curled his lip up in a snarl as he glared at the troublesome lawman. “You know, I’ve been leavin’ you pretty much alone up here,” Jason continued, “but damned if I couldn’t start watchin’ this place a helluva lot closer.”
Monk didn’t reply at once, but moved away from the door to stand behind the counter. “Maybe he was here this mornin’,” he admitted reluctantly, “but he ain’t here now. He’s long gone from here and I don’t know where he was headin’. Most likely lookin’ for his brothers.”
Carefully watching Monk’s eyes, Jason followed him over to the end of the counter, his hand resting lightly on the handle of the .44 riding on his hip. “So if I was to take a look in that stable out back, you’re sayin’ I wouldn’t find Slate Hatcher’s horse in there,” Jason said. “Is that right?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” Monk snarled with a slight shift of his eyes toward the back door.
It was warning enough for Jason. He dived behind the counter, shoving Monk to the floor in the process, as a bullet ripped a chunk out of the countertop. In less than a second his pistol was in his hand and he popped up to empty it at the back door, chewing up the doorframe and the cracked door, sending splinters flying. There was no return fire, and a moment later Jason heard footsteps retreating across the porch.
Holstering his empty pistol, Jason cocked his rifle and rushed to pursue. Outside, Slate paused in the yard to fire another shot at Jason when he started out the door. The shot was wild and thudded into the doorframe. Jason dropped to one knee and fired. His shot was on the mark, dropping the fugitive to the ground. Jason did not bother his mind with questions about making an effort to take Slate in to stand trial. When Slate had chosen to shoot it out, that to Jason was the equivalent of a jury’s guilty verdict. There was not the same feeling of regret he’d had when he had been forced to shoot Billy Tate.
“Well, I reckon I sure as hell won’t sell him no more whiskey,” Monk declared sarcastically.
Jason turned to see the shaggy-bearded man standing in the doorway. “Reckon not,” he replied. Turning back to look at the body, he said, “I’ll be needin’ his horse.”
“I’ll get it for you,” Monk quickly replied and stepped out the door. Hurrying toward the stable, he said, “I’ll saddle him up for you.”
Not the least bit fooled by Monk’s lively efforts to help him, Jason was certain the old badger was quick to recognize an opportunity for profit. He was somewhat surprised when he followed Monk into the stable to find him leading a decent-looking dun mare out of a stall. He smiled to himself when he speculated that Monk probably resisted switching horses because of the story Jason had made up about the nicked hoof. He said nothing as Monk threw a saddle on the horse, waiting until he had tightened the girth before stepping up to examine it. “By God,” he exclaimed, “looks like ol’ Slate just made it here before that saddle fell apart and dumped him on the ground.”
Monk’s eyes switched back and forth nervously. “Yep, it is ’bout plum wore out, ain’t it?” He turned his head and spat. “Me and him was talkin’ about tradin’ for a better one.”
“That a fact?” Jason replied. “Too bad you didn’t trade him before he got shot.”
Encouraged by Jason’s apparent acceptance of his story, Monk said, “He ain’t paid me for his grain and the whis
key he drunk. That’s money that’s owed me. I got a right to collect what he owes me.”
“Well, I reckon you might at that,” Jason said, playing along. “I’ll tell you what, if you can find what he owes in his pockets, you’re welcome to it.” He paused while Monk displayed a satisfied smile, then continued. “Course there’s another little matter I reckon you forgot. I’ll be needin’ that canvas bank sack that Slate brought with him.”
“Damn,” Monk uttered, “I forgot all about that.”
“Easy to do,” Jason said, smiling. “I expect you’ll find it by that double-rigged saddle in the corner of the stall.”
“I never paid it no mind,” Monk said. “I reckon he was carryin’ a sack with him when he rode in. Wonder how it got over in the corner there?”
With Monk’s help, Jason laid Slate’s body across the worn-out saddle and took his leave of the wily old trader. With the return of the bank’s money and the imposition of the corpse, the long ride back to town gave him plenty of time to think over his decision to quit marshaling. He was barely more than a boy when he had joined the U.S. Marshals Service. Marshaling was all he knew, and he was a helluva long way from being too old for the work. But the more thought he gave it, the more he was convinced that the instant decision he had made when he took Billy Tate’s body home was the right one. It was time to start a more satisfying life without the likes of Slate Hatcher and Monk Searcy.
He was a big man, but he didn’t look that big until you stood next to him and he gazed down at you with an expression that conveyed his impatience with what you were about to say—when you hadn’t even said it yet. Rawhide tough, he walked with a quiet, purposeful stride reminiscent of a panther on the prowl, whether it be into a saloon for an evening drink or to face down a cornered cattle rustler. He had no close friends that anyone knew about, but there were few folks in this part of the territory who didn’t know Deputy Marshal Jason Storm.
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